Boy Interrupted
by Caitlynnn
Summary: Tate doesn't know why he cared for him. He shouldn't, but he did. He was just a regular boy, but there was more to it than that. So why at the end of this boy's life did he decide to "save him"? Tate/drabble. Oneshot.


**Somewhat of a drabble that I worked on when I should have been doing finals…**

**Don't own American Horror Story. I do own a sweater though. Oh, and Derek. **

His name was Derek, he had past by the house many times before and there was just something about it that intrigued him so much. He wasn't sure what. Perhaps it was because the house actually gave him the creeps, the "good kind" whatever that meant.

Tate watched as the teenaged angst filled boy had walked on the property, and the boy smiled as he looked around. The door was unlocked and he stepped in, the door slamming behind him. He jumped briefly, but continued on.

"Another one?" Tate sighed, but he was creeping in the shadows following his every move. The floors creaked ever step Derek took. He was just a kid. He didn't have the world. But he was getting beat by it. No one really understood him at school. He oddly found this place as a shelter. Somewhere he could go when the world seemed to collapse around him, which seemed to be quite often.

Tate decided not to do anything yet. But the boy came back the next day, and the next day, and the next day. He had even fallen asleep here. He was getting too comfortable, but something pulled Tate in. Derek was different; he often talked to himself, and he cried a lot. Once Tate saw knives and Tate, he knew how that was.

Not fitting in somewhere sucks. Not having people who don't give a shit if you died sucks even more, because no on really cares. For a brief second, Tate felt something towards the boy. But that wasn't going to stop Tate.

There was just something in Tate that he wasn't even sure of, a dark abyss inside of him that seemed to take over his body, his soul. Because he was already craving to watch someone scream. He liked the though of torturing people. He wanted them to be in pain, and the anguish of it all. He likes the thought of their blood trickling out, and the ghost of who they are is really shown.

People aren't as great as they seem. People hurt you, mothers expecting too much of you. Tate knew it all. There comes a point where it is too much to handle that you snap. And that's okay; sometimes snapping is a good thing. You just can't snap to where you can't rebound and find yourself again.

No one really understood Tate, no one really gets what its like to live in his mind; its exhausting. Having no one believe in you kills you because you start to believe it after a while.

"Sometimes I feel sad for no reason." Derek says, the gun in his hands, the sweat becoming more evident, pooling around him.

"And I really hate people. They always fucking hurt me!" Derek yells, and puts the bullets in the gun. "This is the only safe place I have."

This confuses Tate. Why? He always thought this was a hellhole and he was the devil. He's responsible at a lot of the death, the bloodstains never really leaving him. He's messed up, he knows this, but he doesn't get it. But for a moment, he doesn't care.

"Here we go." Derek says, slowly lifting up the gun to his temple.

"Wow, you're really brave." Tate comes out of the shadows, laughs for a second. Derek snaps open his eyes, dropping the gun in the action.

"Who the hell are you?" His voice is panicked, and Tate bends down and picks up the gun. "Funny," Tate says, looking down at the gun, and smiling, "I was about to ask you the same question." His voice is drifting.

"Where'd you come from?" Derek asks confused looking around at the empty house. Tate smiles and sits down on the ground next to him, pulling the sleeves of his sweater.

"I live here." He says, looking at the boy. "I've been watching you for a while now." He shrugs.

"Your name is Derek, you're a senior in Highschool. You like a girl named Rachel, but she doesn't know you exist. Sometimes you cut yourself because you're because you're weak, but you just "have a lot of feelings" and you're an outcast. No one even knows you exist." Tate says, casually, still looking down at the gun.

"I'm not weak." Derek feels obligated to stand up for himself for once. He needs to protect himself, holding onto himself a little tighter, feeling rather exposed.

Tate rolls his eyes though. "That's bullshit." He pushes up his sleeve, and points to his scars. "This one was when I was ten. " He smiles faintly, but gets up.

"I hate Highschool. I was just like you." His memories are faint, but he doesn't care. It's probably better that way. He's a pathological liar anything goes, really.

"Highschool is just a blimp in your timeline… If I learned anything in Highschool, its that the sound of a gat is better than anything else."

Tate readies the gun, circulating around Derek who is starting to cry because he really does feel too much, he really hates Highschool, and he really hates his mom, and he really hates people expectation of him.

"My mom doesn't believe I can graduate." He tries to control himself but its all coming out now. "She calls me stupid all the time."

Tate stops circulating around him, but the gun was still pointing to him. He understood Derek. It was a filthy goddamn world they lived in. His mom always expected too much, and he gave her all he could offer, he had so much baggage.

"Get up," Tate ordered, and Derek got up. They walked down the hall and out the door. "Go home." Tate pushed Derek out the front door and he fumbled a bit. The gun was still in Tate's hand.

Derek was off of the property but he looked at Tate once, and then looked down and said, "Sometimes I feel like I hate my mom." He then turned around, with an empty heart, and broken dreams and headed back to school.

Tate aimed the gun and said, "Me too."

And bang said the gun.

He wasn't really sure why he didn't kill him in the house like he planned. He normally would. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it. It wasn't that he didn't like Derek. He actually really cared for Derek. He was already in misery. You could tell by the look of Derek's face that he hated life and that he wanted to die. Tate would too if he was in that position. But Tate was dead and nothing was happening to him. If he could kill himself he would. But he couldn't. He was stuck in this fucking house for good.

With a grim face, Tate turned around, and he didn't look back once at the bleeding boy he just killed. He wouldn't be back, that's for sure. He was doing the kid a favor by not killing him on the property. Because that would be just mean.

He wouldn't wish that on anybody. He pointed the gun to his own head, and he laughed as he pulled the trigger knowing that nothing would happen. He was already dead, after all. But why not?

And bang said the gun…

**No idea what just commenced. **

… **Review?**


End file.
